


The Journey From Great to Good

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parallel Story to The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>After the Reichenbach fall, Sherlock works to pull apart Moriarty's network without tearing himself apart in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is parallel to The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes. If you haven't read it yet, I ask that you read it first.

“You told me once that you weren’t a hero… um… there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human… human being I’ve ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that’s… uh. There.

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

“Look, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!”

I wanted to go to him. I was supposed to go to him; that was the plan. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to hold him until his tears abated. I wanted to see John get angry and probably punch me. It’s not as though I didn’t deserve to be hit, I had hurt him in an unforgiveable way. There was no way I could hurt John like this twice, though. Not when the second time, if there were a second time, would be real.

As I watched John walk to Mrs. Hudson I felt tears well up in my eyes. I didn’t know how long I would be away from him, but I would miss him dearly in that time. Before Moriarty came along, I never thought that I would have to spend time away from him. In the back of my mind, I had thought that if either of us was to be the one leaving the other alone and in pain, it would have been him leaving me because I had irritated him for the last time. I would have never left my only friend.  Moriarty ruined everything good in my life when he killed himself and forced my hand.

John turned toward me and I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. A sigh of relief passed through my lips when he shook his head and turned back around.

I walked slowly to the apartment that Mycroft had rented me for the time being. I couldn’t take a cab; I wasn’t wearing a disguise and couldn’t risk being recognized. I would have to cut through back gardens and climb over roofs to get there as it was. It was close to the flat at Baker Street, so it was going to be a long walk. That was okay; I needed the time to clear my mind.

When I opened the front door and removed my coat, I saw a familiar umbrella on the coat rack.

“Hello Mycroft, I suppose you realize that I changed my mind.” I said.

“Yes, brother.” He responded.

“You had me followed?”

“For security reasons, of course.”

“Of course.” I hung my coat on the rack, flicked my hand over a faint blood stain on the shoulder as though I could wipe it away, and turned around. Mycroft was sitting with his right ankle on his left knee in the one comfortable chair in the apartment. He was wearing his pale blue shirt; he was trying to put me at ease. I sat on the couch and prepared myself to be berated. “I suppose that you have thoughts on this.”

“I have questions, more than anything.”

“Oh?”

“Why didn’t you tell John that you’re not dead? I believe that the plan was for you to talk to him today.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“Why on earth not?”

“You didn’t see him. He’s hurting far more than I had anticipated.” I didn’t tell Mycroft what John had said at my grave. He would already know, anyway.

“What does that matter to _you_?”

“He’s my friend, Mycroft. You know the mission I’m undertaking. What if I were to die, for real this time? I can’t make him go through this pain twice.”

“You know that the longer you wait the more it will hurt him when you come back, don’t you?”

“Yes. My concern is that if I were to tell him I am alive and then die, he will have been put through great pain three times. I cannot… I will not do that to John. I would rather have him think me dead.”

“I never thought I would see the day that _you_ , of all people, succumbed to sentiment,” Mycroft sneered. He had abandoned putting me at ease.

“He is my friend, the first I’ve had since I was a child. Of course I’m sentimental.”

Mycroft shifted in his seat, placing his right foot squarely on the ground and his elbows on his knees. “I suppose that you have realized that without John beside you, the odds of your dying go up tenfold.”

“Of course. John has always protected me. The day after we met he killed to save my life. However, my death would be inconsequential.”

“’Inconsequential’? Your death would be far from that.”

“Who’s being sentimental, now?”

Mycroft and I stared daggers at each other for a long moment. There were a lot of hurtful things that could have been said by either of us. I was relieved when he changed the subject. This was no time for a row, especially since I was injured.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to go about your little mission?”

“It seems simple enough. We’ll arrest every member of Moriarty’s network that we know about. We’ll track down the rest. When his network is torn apart John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade will be safe. I’ll be able to go home without risking hurting John again. If I die in the interim he isn’t to know that I survived my fall.”

“It all comes back to John. Brother, I do believe you are obsessed.”

“Just go home, Mycroft.” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “You know my plans; I don’t need you here to insulting me,” I said. _I can do that well enough myself,_ I thought.

Mycroft sneered at me again, retrieved his umbrella from the coat rack and left. He really could be irritating. I was _not_ obsessed with John. I just missed my friend.

That evening a headache hit me. I mentally blamed Mycroft for forcing me into an argument. These headaches seemed to hit when I was feeling overly emotional. I had intended to work into the night, but there was no cure for these headaches but sleep. None that are wise to prescribe to an addict, anyway.

The next afternoon, Molly arrived at my apartment to check up on me. She wasn’t a real doctor, but I couldn’t risk going to one and having the truth about my highly publicized death come out.

“How are you feeling today, Sherlock?” she asked as she slipped her hands into a pair of rubber gloves.

“Better, for the most part. I’m still getting the headaches, though.”

“That’s to be expected, concussions and cracked skulls take time to heal, after all. They should fade in frequency and intensity over the next several weeks.” She motioned toward my head questioningly. I nodded and she approached me. “Have you remembered anything about when you jumped off of Bart’s?” Molly slid her fingers gently through my hair, checking on my healing cuts and bruises.

“I believe that I have. It was in a dream, but it felt real. I’ve filed it away as truth, anyway.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve remembered?” Molly nodded to herself and pulled a flashlight out of her pocket.

“I was standing at the edge of the roof. John had called me. I told him that the lies were true. That I’m a fraud.” Molly flashed her light in my eyes, checking my pupil reaction. I flinched away from the light for a moment before opening my eyes and going on.  “I made him stand where he wouldn’t be able to see the laundry truck. I told him that the call was my suicide note. I needed for him to believe, in that moment, that I was dead, otherwise he would have been killed.” I felt my voice crack.

“Do you need a minute, Sherlock?” Molly asked. I took a deep breath and shook my head.

“No, I’m okay. The memories are a little jumbled, but I think they’re all there. I threw my phone onto the roof and jumped. I had to, Moriarty had shot himself in the head, and there was no other way to call off the snipers.” I felt my eyes well up but went on. “I landed in the laundry truck, hitting my head. There was supposed to be more laundry in the truck to soften my fall, but I suppose in a three story fall you’re bound to get hurt in some way. I quickly climbed out of the truck and jumped to the ground, shoving a rubber ball into my armpit to make it seem as though I had no pulse. I felt hands grab my left arm so that John would have to check for a pulse on my right. I saw John running toward me, but I lost consciousness before he reached me.”

The apartment blurred around me. In my minds’ eye, I saw Johns face at that moment, so filled with pain. I choked back a sob as my shoulders began to shake. Molly pulled me into her arms, rested her cheek against the top of my head and patted me awkwardly on the back. I let her hold me until my tears abated before pulling away. She took an awkward step backwards. There were tears in her eyes, too.

“Well,” she began shakily, “that matches with what I was told. Your concussion is healed and your stitches will be ready to remove in a few days.” I couldn’t help but be grateful that she was acting as though I hadn’t just broken down. “Your skull will probably take another month or two to heal, but it feels as though it’s healing correctly. Don’t go banging your head again, okay?”

I nodded and looked at her for a long minute. “Could you do me a favor, Molly?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“I’m worried about John. I can’t go check up on him for obvious reasons. Would you try to check in on him now and then? I’m worried that this shock might hurt him in unexpected ways.”

“Of course, Sherlock.”

After Molly left I longed to play my violin. The Stradivarius was still at Baker Street. John had refused to let Mycroft take any of my things from the flat. It was extremely inconvenient, there were a lot of things I would have liked to have. My other coat would have been nice, rather than walking around in a coat stained with my own blood. Mycroft thought it best that I not have the violin; it would only make the neighbors pay attention to me. We couldn’t have that.

Instead, I went into my mind palace.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is parallel to The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes and contains major spoilers. If you haven't read it yet, I ask that you read it first.

I was in my mind palace, sorting through the kitchens. Temporary storage always seemed to fill up quickly and needed to be sorted every few days. I glanced at the memory of the conversation I had with John in Angelo’s the day after we met. It sat dusty in a corner, where it had been for over a year and a half. _The garden or my bedroom?_ That was the question, wasn’t it? I felt like it could only be one or the other, but never both. I decided to let it be for the moment as I had so many times before. I considered the memory of John at my grave for a moment before I picked it up and carried it to the garden.

I kept all things John in the garden. A garden was a place of light, a place of laughter and joy. I looked up at the sky and saw it was stormy. The wet wouldn’t harm my memories, but the storm and its implications bothered me. I could only hope that John would be happy soon. That would make the skies clear.

I returned to the kitchen and looked for a long moment at the argument I had the day before with Mycroft. _The study or the office?_ I decided to duplicate it and put it in both rooms. The office, where I kept all things Mycroft, was cluttered and would need to be organized soon. _Another day._ The study, where I kept things pertaining to current cases, was woefully empty. There was only one case at the moment, and I had very little to go on. I would have to look in the library, where I kept solved cases, for things having to do with my current one.

I loved my library. I often wandered through it when I was bored and between cases. There was a separate book for every case I had solved, neatly organized by the type of crime committed, where the crime was committed, the profile of the criminal and the date the crime was committed. The serial killer aisle was my favorite. I passed it over to look in organized crime. I passed over gang violence and the mob to non-gang related drug dealing. Moriarty had had his hand in that. I looked around for a moment before picking up another couple of books. I duplicated all of them, set the originals back where they belonged, and made my way to the study. I dropped off the books. I would go back and organize properly later.

I took the copy of my argument with Mycroft to the office. Mycroft needed an office. Although I very rarely saw him in his, he’s such a bureaucrat that I’ve always found it hard to picture him anywhere else. I glanced at the plaque beside his door before going in. “ _Office, for the Ass_ ” it read. I smiled to myself reading it. It had been spiteful of me to change it from “ _Office, Mycroft_ ,” but he would never know. I opened the door to find it cluttered with arguments we had had over the last two weeks. I took some time to put it to rights.

As I brushed the mental dust off of my coat, I looked around the office at a job well done. There were thirteen new entries to arguments and one to sentiment. The man really could be trying, at times.

I went back to my study. I looked around the nearly empty room before considering the books placed on the floor next to the door. _Put them on the existing shelf or start a new one?_ I asked myself. I decided that they needed a new shelf. I labeled it “ _Possibly Related_ ” and looked around the room again. It was still woefully empty, but the new shelf made it seem less sparse. I nodded to myself and headed to the sitting room.

I never liked to go into the sitting room. It was filled with my failures; more than John would have ever dreamed existed. Every failed case, from my first when I was eight to a carjacking case from last month rested in this room. I forced myself to look through it every so often to remind myself of my mistakes, rather than make them again. There were two cases with snipers involved, I duplicated them and put the books under my arm. _What else?_ I looked at the cases that I had labeled as “Possibly Organized Crime Related.” I passed over cases that were obviously gang or mob related. Just because I didn’t know which gang or mob doesn’t mean that it wasn’t obvious where they belonged. _Nothing._

I considered the room for a moment before turning to the shelf with kidnappings. _Of course._ There, six kidnappings that had obviously been committed by the same crew. All of the victims had been low profile, retired or disabled military personnel recently home from deployment with no family. They had all lived alone. They had all been snatched off the street in public places. There had been no ransom demands. How had I not seen it before, these people weren’t kidnapped, they went into another service. Of course, it had been years before I had heard Moriarty’s name, but I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realized it sooner.

I quickly duplicated the book for the kidnappings, added it to the two books already under my arm and walked quickly to the study. I placed them on the shelf alongside the books from the library and looked around the room. The room was still emptier than I would have liked, but it was far better than it had been before. I thought for a moment before making one last trip.

The dungeons were dark and damp. I couldn’t stand the thought of this case sitting neatly on a shelf beside the others in the library. It was no ordinary case. Everything about it made my skin crawl. I kept Moriarty in the dungeon, where he belonged. He was a spider, a rat; where better to keep him?

I needed everything on known members of Moriarty’s network. I needed his snipers, his business men, his thugs. I sorted through guards, scientists, and drug labs. His forgers, thieves, arsonists, and bomb-makers. I needed them all. It took me some time to sort through the dungeons, but when I was done I had a satisfyingly large stack to move to the study.

After I had carried everything to the study, I took a moment to look around. There was probably more to move, but I couldn’t think of any at the moment. Who to start arresting first, though? I had the names of far more of the low level members, but if I started arresting them first the middlemen would catch wind and flee. The low level members simply wouldn’t have the names of the commanders. Taking out the middlemen first would warn the low level and commanding members. I would have to take out the brains of the bunch first, then. At least, those of whom I was aware of. Middlemen would try to keep things running smoothly if their commanders went missing, rather than look incompetent if they were to come back. I made a mental note to tell Mycroft to start carefully arresting Moriarty’s inner sanctum.

I decided to reward myself for a job well done and spend some time with my memories of John.

The sky had turned to night and the clouds obscured the stars. I must have been working for quite some time for it to be night. I looked around for a moment before deciding on a memory to relive.

_We were in the sitting room of the flat shortly after we had returned from Baskerville. John had told me earlier that day that The Woman was in a witness protection scheme in America, though the thought she was dead. I had ensured that. He didn’t know that I had helped her to fake her death._

_I was lying on the sofa fingering her phone in my pocket with my eyes closed. John was staring at me, though he thought I couldn’t tell. He was concerned. I was glad that he had decided to tell me the lie rather than what he believed to be truth, this way I didn’t have to put up a ruse of sadness._

_John took a deep breath then slowly released it. He was building up the courage to say something, probably to console me._

_“Mycroft told me something today,” John stated._

_“I assumed so, seeing how you came from speaking to him to give me the news about The Woman,” I replied waspishly. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with this. If he tried to comfort me I was going to ignore him._

_“Other than that,” John sighed. “He said that when you were a boy you wanted to be a pirate.”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Why a pirate? I would think that you were living your childhood dream.”_

_“I was five. Don’t most children wish to be pirates, soldiers, or vets?”_

_“Sherlock, I doubt that you were ever like most children.”_

_“I suppose that I liked the idea of sailing around with my friends, playing games.” I rolled onto my side and gave John a long look. “I didn’t have any friends, of course, but I believed that every pirate on a ship were friends. I don’t think I had a clear idea of what pirates did, other than sail around and have pet parrots.”_

_“Sherlock…” I could hear the hurt in his voice. John never liked to hear about how alone I had been before we met._

_“Also, who ever said that I’m not living my childhood dream? I’ve known I wanted to be a detective and scientist since I was eight. ‘The Case of the Missing Slipper.’ It turned out that the master criminal was mummy’s corgi.”_

_A slow smile spread over Johns face. He fingered awkwardly at the frayed hem of his tan jumper, obviously trying to figure out how to respond. I felt warmth spread through me and couldn’t hold back a chuckle._

I smiled fondly at the memory. I looked around the garden for a long moment before deciding that one last thing needed to be moved. I duplicated Johns’ ratty cabled jumper and placed a copy in my bedroom. It was precious to me, and I could think of no better place to keep it.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is parallel to The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes and contains major spoilers. If you haven't read it yet, I ask that you read it first.

When Molly came to remove my stitches she had news of John. News I was not happy to hear.

“Mrs. Hudson says that he’s getting stinking drunk on cheap whisky every night,” she said as she pinned my hair away from my stitches.

“Ow,” I grumbled as a pin dug into my sensitive scalp.

“Sorry,” Molly said, adjusting the pin. “John hasn’t contacted me, which I’m not that surprised by.”

_Snip. Tug. Snip. Tug._

“He hasn’t contacted Greg, either,” she said.

_Snip. Tug. Snip. Tug._

I tried not to flinch while I wracked my brain for who she was talking about.

“Greg?” I asked.

“Jesus, Sherlock, really? D.I. Lestrade.”

_Snip. Tug. Snip. Tug._

“Ah.” I responded. _Of course, Greg Lestrade._ I kept deleting his first name, it was unimportant.

“Just one more,” Molly said.

_Snip. Tug._

“Here we are, just let me take out the pins.” Molly was used to how quiet I get when I’m processing information and went about her work knowing I was figuring out a plan of action.

When all of the pins were removed I stood up and began to pace across the small sitting room. _John is hurting himself because of me. He’s a doctor; he knows what drinking like this will do to his body. Has he decided to kill himself slowly through alcohol? No, he hates Harry’s drinking; he wouldn’t do that to himself deliberately. Self-medication, then._

By the time I had paced back and forth across the room nine times I knew that I needed more information to decide what to do. If possible, I needed information from the source.

“Thank you, Molly,” I said, looking at her for the first time since she had walked in my door.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do?” she asked.

“Continue to keep an eye on him. I’ll be doing the same.”

After a bit of nagging to be careful of my head, Molly left. I found myself with several hours with nothing to do. I couldn’t help but sink into guilt.

_If I had just told him that I’m alive he wouldn’t be hurting himself like this. This is all my fault. If I were cleverer I would have figured out a way to save John without faking my death. I should have known better than to tell Moriarty my intensions to force him to call off the snipers. I should have eased into it, talked him around to calling them off. Instead I played my cards, showed my hand. Why must I always prove to others how clever I am? I did it with The Woman, I should have known better than to do it with Moriarty. John is more important than any ego boost._

I longed for a gun to shoot at the walls. I would have used if I had any cocaine in the apartment. Instead, I slapped on another nicotine patch and went back to pacing.

I needed to know exactly how bad John’s drinking habit was. I knew that I would worry endlessly about him if I didn’t find out. Because of that, I found myself waiting outside his work fifteen minutes before he normally left. I was disguised in a cheap, rumpled blue suit, brown contacts, with my hair slicked back and a slight tint added to my skin.

When John stepped out the door I felt my breath hitch. His skin had a sickly pallor, he had deep circles beneath his eyes, and he had gained at least three pounds in the last week. He showed no recognition when his eyes passed over me as he turned toward the tube station. I followed him, making sure to keep my distance, and got on the same car as him.

John got off the train a stop earlier than he normally would have. He headed straight into the Morrisons near the station. _Just doing the shopping,_ I thought, trying to easy my mind while I waited around the next corner. When he passed me, I noted that he was only carrying one bag that looked as though it carried only a bottle of whisky. I followed John all the way to Baker Street, walked to the corner and ducked into the back alley.

I was careful to make sure that Mrs. Hudson didn’t spot me through her window as I approached the dust bins. Pickup had been early that morning, so I didn’t expect to find much. There was only one thing in the recycling bin, an empty whisky bottle. I couldn’t know how quickly he had gone through it, but I suspected that he had bought it the day before.

The next morning, I returned to Baker Street to check the dust bins again. Where there had been one bottle there were now two. As I walked back to my apartment I couldn’t help but blame myself.

_Have I really pushed John into this? He barely drank before, but now… If I hadn’t faked my death, he wouldn’t be sinking into addiction. If I had come forward he wouldn’t be drinking like this. He hates users, look at what he thinks of Harry’s drinking. The way he made me quit smoking and tried to make me stop using patches. One of his few ultimatums with me was that if I used again he would leave and never return. Now, look at him! He must know what he’s doing to himself. How can I help him? In his current state letting him know I’m alive could just push him further. He might even believe that he’s hallucinating._

_I never thought he would take this so hard. He was always my reasonable, steadfast John. Unflappable John. He should have been able to handle loosing me; he’s a soldier for Christ’s sake! He’s lost people before. Why would losing_ me _, of all people, shake him like this? All I ever did was annoy him, put his life in danger, and fill his kitchen with my experiments. I just don’t understand!_

My thoughts circled for hours after I got back to the apartment. I tried to put thoughts of John out of my mind but found it difficult. Over the next few days I realized that I needed someone to steady me. Someone who could help me make the intuitive jumps needed to solve this case so I could go home. There had only ever been one person, other than John, able to do that. Irene. I disliked the idea of working with her and put off calling her.

A week after I followed John home, Molly declared me sound enough to go out into the field, so long as I avoided getting in any fights. As soon as she left the apartment I dressed as a beggar and went into the city that was my home to see what I could find. I had to be careful of the homeless network; while some of them were loyal to me, most would sell me out as alive more quickly than most would believe. Even the members that had helped me fake my death didn’t know that I had survived my injuries. I had to speak to them as if I were one of them, rather than as their former employer.

After the third person I approached turned me away I realized my mistake. They had been willing to give information to me before because I offered them bribes. Dressed as one of them, I was just another homeless person trying to get in on their turf. One they didn’t know, at that. If I were to offer to bribe them now, they might suspect something. I would have to be careful.

I realized that I was going to have call Irene. As much as I disliked the idea of replacing John in any way, I knew I needed the help. To keep John safe I couldn’t get in touch with any of my old contacts. I needed someone connected.

 _“I need your help with something-SH,”_ I texted her.

 _“I should have known you weren’t dead. What is it?”_ She responded within a few minutes.

_“Meet up with me?-SH”_

_“Where?”_

I texted her the address of my apartment. Not the best option but, unlike a cafe or park, we could speak candidly there.

I opened my door to see Irene sitting neatly on my sofa.

“Give me a moment,” I said and stepped into my bedroom. I quickly removed my wig and false beard, and then changed out of my torn and filthy clothing. I glanced in the mirror and considered removing my makeup. There wasn’t much of it, so I decided to let it be. I fluffed my hair as I walked down the short hall from my bedroom to the sitting room, trying to get some feeling of normalcy.

“I take it that the reports that you jumped to your death are less than true, then?” Irene asked, looking at me appraisingly.

“Oh, I did jump, I just didn’t die.”

“I see that.” Irene looked at me for a long moment. “Why did you do it?”

“Moriarty had snipers trained on the people I love. If I hadn’t jumped, they would have been killed.” I stated.

“What do you need me for?”

“I need connections. Also, I’ve grown used to having someone to talk to as I work things out. You are suitable for both.”

“Your people are safe now, can’t you just go home?”

“Those snipers are still under orders to kill my friends. I can’t be sure of their safety if I reveal myself to be alive. I intend to tear apart every fiber of Moriarty’s web, then return.”

“Why would I help you?” she asked.

“You owe me a debt. I helped you to fake your death. Surely you don’t like owing someone so _great_ a debt.” I responded.

“How long do you think this project is going to take?” she asked with a sigh.

“A few months, at least. Probably longer.”

“Can I have some time to think about this?”

“Of course.” I looked at her for a moment before deciding that she was trustworthy enough for this. “Look, I haven’t slept in days and I’m still recovering from a concussion. I need to get some sleep. Would you show yourself out?”

Irene nodded and waved me off. I rose from my chair and went to take a much needed nap.

I woke several hours later to the sound of my phone ringing loudly on my bedside table. I fumbled for it and glanced at the screen. _Molly_. I would have to take it.

“Hello?”

“Sherlock?”

“Who else would it be?” I rubbed my eyes and glanced out the window. _What time is it?_

“Look, I just left John’s. He’s asked me to do something. I’ve said no.”

“What did he ask you to do?” I asked, my mind racing toward wakefulness.

“He’s putting together a team to clear your name. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t see him all the time and know I was lying to him.”

I rubbed at the stubble on my cheek for a moment. “Who else has he asked to help him?”

“Greg, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson.”

“Okay. I understand why you can’t be around John right now. I really do, it’s the same reason I haven’t told him I’m alive. You don’t want to risk hurting him.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“You and Lestrade are friendly. Do you think you could check in with him every so often, to find out how John is doing? He’s far more likely to pay attention to John’s mental state than Mycroft. Well, more likely to not judge me for every pain that John goes through, anyway.”

“Of… Of course.”

“Good. Thank you.” I said and hung up.

I climbed out of bed, pulling the sheet with me and wrapping it around my shoulders. I barked my shin on the bedside table as I stepped toward the door. I stopped for a moment, reminding myself that pulling the table to splinters wouldn’t make my shin hurt any less. I opened the door and headed toward the kitchen to make myself a nice cup of coffee. Maybe that would help me to not feel the need to tear apart inanimate objects with my bare hands.

I stopped in surprise in the doorway between the sitting room and kitchen. Irene was sitting at the kitchen table. I shook my head and walked past her.

“I thought that you were going to show yourself out.” I said as I pulled a bag of beans from a cabinet. I poured beans into the grinder and pressed the button on the side. She cleared her throat when the beans were ground. I turned around to look at her.

“I’m going to help you.” She stated.

“I thought as much. Why are you still here?”

“I’ve been living in Paris. If you want me in London for an extended period I expect for you to house me. This flat has two bedrooms and I plan on staying in the second one.”

“I ask for your help and you take it as an invitation to move in with me?”

“Yes.”

I turned my back to her, ran water into the percolator from the tap, poured the ground coffee beans into a filter, placed the filter in the percolator and pressed start.

I turned back to Irene. “Please, don’t call this apartment a flat. The flat is at Baker Street. This place is temporary, it isn’t home.”

Irene raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, this _apartment_ has two bedrooms. You aren’t using the second one, it’s now mine.”

“I had been planning on using that bedroom as a lab.”

“Use the kitchen. Or we could share.” I turned to check on the coffee, ignoring her. I knew it wouldn’t be brewed yet, but I didn’t want to deal with her until I was caffeinated.

“John messaged me while you were asleep. He wanted my help with something.”

I spun back to her, nearly slipping on my sheet. “How did he know that you’re alive?”

“Oh, Sherlock, do pay attention. I came forward about being alive over two months ago. I’ve been able to put together some new leverage to keep me safe.”

“Oh,” I said dumbly. Had I known that and deleted it? “Did John want your help in clearing my name?”

“He said it had to do with you. I turned him down. I fully intend to give our little project all of my attention.”

I sighed and turned back to the coffee pot. I could already tell that having Irene for a roommate was going to be more stressful than having John for a flatmate had ever been.

“Would you mind going to get some takeaway? I need to eat.” I listened as Irene stood and went to the door.

“You’re going to have to do this yourself, occasionally. I’m not going to act like your servant.”

“Of course.”

“Put on some clothes while I’m out. Seeing you in that sheet just makes me want to tear it off of you.”

A few hours later, long after the Cantonese takeaway was nothing more than empty boxes, Irene and I were in the sitting room trying to work out some kind of living arrangement that wouldn’t have us constantly at each other’s throats. Having two dominant personalities in one small apartment for an unknown amount of time was going to be difficult, particularly since one of us made a living as a dominatrix. There was an unexpected knock on the door.

The door opened before either of us could rise to answer it. Mycroft stormed in and slammed the door behind him. He looked at Irene for a moment before turning to me, clearly putting her out of his mind.

“I hope you’re happy, Sherlock,” Mycroft practically shouted.

“I actually am. It seems that John has pulled himself out of his slump and is working toward something that would be quite helpful to me when I come back.” I answered coolly, leaning back in my seat and steepling my fingers in front of me. “Are you going to help him?”

“Of course I’m going to help him,” Mycroft scoffed. “He could pull up information that could help you to save his life. What concerns me, however, is how is he ever going to get over losing your death if he spends every waking moment obsessing about you?”

“Would you rather have him drink himself to death?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what do you expect for me to do about it? I’ve already asked Molly to keep in contact with Lestrade so that I can keep tabs on John. What more can I do?”

“What more can you do? You could let him know that you’re alive.”

Irene had sat quietly up to this point, watching the exchange between Mycroft and me as though it were a mildly interesting tennis match.

“Do you realize what could happen if John takes the news badly?” She asked quietly.

Mycroft snapped his neck around to look at her, as though surprised to see that she was still in the room.

“If John takes the news badly, he could accidentally tip off Moriarty’s people that Sherlock is alive, and cause his own death. I don’t know about you, but in my book obsession is far healthier than a bullet wound to the head.”

Mycroft glared at her for a moment before turning back to me.

“Well, Sherlock, I see that you’ve replaced John already. I guess that he didn’t mean as much to you as you said. Be careful of this one, She’s a snake.”

With that, Mycroft turned on his heel and left.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is parallel to The Fall and Rise of Sherlock Holmes and contains major spoilers. If you haven't read it yet, I ask that you read it first.

After much thought, I came to the conclusion that I could positively identify only six middlemen in Moriarty’s network. I called Mycroft to give him the names.

“Hello, brother, have you grown so weary of your new flatmate already that you’re seeking out _my_ company?” Mycroft answered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Irene and I are getting along just fine, thank you,” I said, glancing to the kitchen table where The Woman sat, reading a book with a mug of tea at her elbow, long since gone cold.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, then?”

“I have six names for you, middlemen in Moriarty’s web. I need for them to be arrested as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“Anything else?” Mycroft asked after I had given him the names.

“Yes,” I said, a stone growing in the pit of my stomach. There was no way that Mycroft would say yes to this request; he would see it as far too reckless. “I want to be there when they’re arrested.”

“No,” Mycroft stated quickly in a tone that booked no argument.

“I’ll go disguised.”

“The answer, Sherlock, is no. It is one thing to have you doing groundwork, it is another to put you directly in harm’s way.”

“Fine,” I said impetuously. “May I at least be part of the interrogation process? That should be perfectly safe.”

“That is… doable. I will let you know when you’re needed.”

“What, you don’t want my help tracking these men down? They may be too slippery for your barely-competent men to find.”

“I have full confidence in my people to find six people in London, brother. If you wish to stay under my protection you should learn to trust them, as well. Goodbye, Sherlock.” Mycroft rang off.

I glared at the phone in my hand for a long moment, considering throwing it as hard as I could at the wall. I eventually decided against it. I would surely have to ask Mycroft to replace the damn thing and I didn’t want for him to know how much he frustrated me.

Instead, I very carefully set my phone on the coffee table, stood, and began to walk to my bedroom.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Irene asked quietly from the kitchen, not looking up from her book.

“No.”

Irene and I had worked out some general rules to keep us from killing one another. I didn’t leave experiments out. She didn’t bring strangers to the apartment. I cleaned. She cooked. We took turns doing the shopping. If one of us was reading the other wasn’t to disturb them. We were working it out as we went, but so far things had gone smoothly.

*~*~*

“Sherlock, it isn’t possible for me to have robbed the bank, you must have lost count of how much money I have.”

“No, you should have £800 less than you do.”

“You’re the banker. You think I could really steal from under your nose?”

“Yes, in fact, I do.”

Irene and I were on the floor of the sitting room, a Monopoly board spread on the coffee table between us. We were drinking some concoction she called a “Blue Hawaii” that was an odd shade of turquoise. From the way I was feeling, I suspected that it was far more alcoholic than I had initially thought.

“You’re drunk, Sherlock. How many of those have you had?”

I looked at my nearly empty glass for a moment, trying to remember. “Five, I think,” I said uncertainly.

“No wonder you can’t keep count. You’re 150 pounds soaking wet, I’m surprised you haven’t passed out,” she said, snickering.

“I never ‘ _pass out,_ ’” I said haughtily, draining my glass as I tried to ignore her laughter. “I think I need some water.”

“Brink me some, too.”

I carefully rose to my feet, took one step toward the kitchen and nearly fell flat on my face as the room spun around me. I stopped for a moment to let the world settle, and then walked the kitchen on unsteady feet. While I was reaching into the cupboard to pull out two glasses I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

I fumbled for a moment before pulling out my phone. Mycroft. I sighed before answering the damn thing and putting it to my ear.

“Hello, brother.” I said very carefully, not wanting to slur my words.

“Sherlock, my men have made the arrests. Gates and Donner were found dead, the other four were brought in without incident.”

“What’s the C.O.D. on Donner and Gates?” I asked. I had definitely slurred there, hopefully Mycroft wouldn’t notice.

“Gunshot wound to the back of the head on both of them.” Mycroft stated promptly. “Brother,” he continued, a note of concern creeping into his voice, “are you alright? You sound a little off.”

I sighed and rubbed at my eyes. I should have known better than to think that I could hide my state from Mycroft. “I’m fine. Irene and I have been playing Monopoly and drinking for the last few hours. The drinks were stronger than they tasted.” I glanced into the living room and felt my lips quirk into a smile. “She cheats.”

Mycroft laughed, his relief palatable. “Do you want to investigate the scenes?” He said, sobering. “The ground at both locations is concrete and was swept thoroughly, there are no footprints of any kind.”

“No, just have your men collect samples, then. When should the other four be ready for questioning?”

“Give them a couple of days to stew in solitary. I’ll bring you in when the first starts to crack.”

I rang off and tucked my phone back into my pocket. “I think,” I reflected aloud, “that is the first conversation I’ve had with Mycroft since I jumped off Bart’s which didn’t turn into a shouting match.”

*~*~*

Three days later I was at the kitchen table examining fingers that had been frozen for three weeks to determine the rate of decomposition when my phone buzzed on the table, making the slide vibrate beneath the microscope lens. I answered it, irritated.

“Yes?”

“A car will be coming by to pick you up in 25 minutes. Ms. Richter is ready for questioning.” Mycroft said.

“Very good,” I said and hung up. I gathered up my experiment and put it away in the refrigerator.

“I’m coming with you,” Irene stated as I reached for my coat, obviously expecting me to fight her on the point.

“Of course.”

*~*~*

Interrogation rooms aren’t like they show in the movies. I have never been in and interrogation room that is large and dark with only a single light hanging over a steel table set with two chairs. No, in my experience interrogation rooms are far more ordinary and unsettling than that.

I looked around me as I waited for my brothers’ men to bring Ms. Richter to me. The room was small, only eight feet by six feet, and uncomfortably warm. The walls were covered with off-white egg-carton soundproofing. The wall behind me was mostly taken up with a double sided mirror behind which was an observation room where I knew Irene and Mycroft waited and watched. There was a door just off-center enough to be irritating in the wall to my right. There were cameras in opposing corners of the room to catch every motion within. I sat at a simple pine table in a cheap plastic hair. There was a seemingly identical chair across the table from me, but the left rear leg was a quarter inch longer than the other three. The entire room was designed to seem ordinary but put the interrogate on edge. On the table were a microphone and a slim folder bearing Richter’s name.

Richter was led, blindfolded and cuffed, into the room by one of Mycroft’s men. He guided her to the other chair and helped her to sit. She was 32, white, had artificially red hair, was born in Texas and had immigrated in her teens and she had lived in London since. She had been happily married for six, no six and a half years to an older man, no children. He didn’t know what she did for a living.

“Now, Adeline,” said Mycroft’s man, “I’m going to remove your cuffs. Please don’t remove the blindfold until you hear the door close behind me.” She nodded. He uncuffed her, nodded at me, and walked out of the room. The door closed with a loud thud. Richter rubbed her wrists for a moment before pushing the blindfold onto the top of her head.

Richter gasped and froze, staring at me. “Bu- but you’re dead,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

“Reports of my death have been grossly exaggerated.” I said slowly, making my voice as deep as possible. Richter swallowed, her eyes dilating with fear. “Of course,” I continued, “I’ve had to make sure that those reports were exaggerated. Your boss saw to that.

“I don’t… What do you want with me?” She asked, her voice wavering.

“Not much. Just tell me exactly what you do for Moriarty.”

She set her shoulders, a look of defiance in her eyes. “Didn’t the news say that you hired some actor to pretend to be Moriarty and then killed him when the truth came out?”

“Adeline,” I said softly, leaning forward and meeting her gaze with a soft expression on my face, “you have no idea what you’re dealing with here. You’ve been arrested by the secret service. If you don’t start talking, and soon, you will never see your husband again.” I leaned back, crossed my legs and smiled. “George filed a missing persons report, you know. If you don’t tell me everything, and I mean _everything_ , he’s going to search for you for years. He’ll never know what happened to you. Most people _never_ get over loosing a loved one that way. You wouldn’t want him to go through that, would you?”

Two hours later I walked out of the interrogation room. Irene and Mycroft met me in the hall.

“Well, then,” Mycroft started, “do you think she was telling the truth?”

“I’d still be in there if I didn’t believe her. It’s not like we should expect middlemen to know who the new leader is.”

“True,” he replied. We both turned to Irene, who was staring at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

“What?” I asked.

Irene shook herself. “Sorry. It’s just, I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it.” I looked at her, trying to deduce what she was getting at. “You’d make one hell of a Dom, is all.”

Mycroft looked absolutely horrified at the idea. I just laughed. “Not going to happen,” I said after I pulled myself together. “Married to my work and all that.” I turned to Mycroft. “I’m going to step out for a fag. Get Fitzgerald ready.”

A little over an hour later I stepped out of the interrogation room, frustrated. Irene and Mycroft walked out of the observation room.

“Are you entirely certain you have the right man?” Mycroft asked. I saw the question coming, but still flinched at it.

“Of course I’m _certain._ ” I hissed. I started to pace up and down the hall. “Do you really think I would let you arrest an innocent bystander? I’m telling you, that man is no _mechanic._ ” I waved an arm toward the interrogation room and continued pacing up and down the hall. “I just need to figure out how to break him.”

“May I try?” Irene asked.

“You?” Mycroft scoffed.

“Yes, me. I’ve made a career of carefully _not_ breaking people. I’m sure I can get him to crack.”

I stopped in place, my back to them. “That could work,” I said, spinning to face them.

“What?” Mycroft asked, askance.

“Oh, stop being such a misogynist. It. Could. Work.”

Mycroft shook his head and very carefully didn’t stomp back into the observation room.

“I’ve been playing nice,” Irene explained. “I guess he’s forgotten what I’m capable of.”

“Unlike me, he hasn’t experienced it first-hand.” We nodded at each other, both smiling, though I suspect for different reasons.

Mycroft didn’t look at me or speak when I stepped into the observation room. I was fine with that. I closed the door quietly behind me and turned to look into the interrogation room.

Irene opened the door and stepped in, hips swaying. She had undone the top two buttons of her blouse and tucked it to be snugger around her waist. Her hair was artfully disheveled. She walked around to the far side of the table, looked at the double sided mirror significantly, and very deliberately turned off the microphone so Fitzgerald could see.

“That damn woman,” Mycroft growled, moving to the door.

I snaked out an arm and grabbed his elbow. “Wait.”

Irene sat on the edge of the table with her back to us, clearly invading Fitzgerald’s personal space. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. They stayed like that for about five minutes before he gulped and nodded. She walked around the table, sat in her chair, and turned the mike back on.

“So, Mr. Fitzgerald, why don’t you tell us what we want to know.”

“I was brought in when I was 17 by a man called Samuel. They wanted me to pick locks for housebreaking…”

Iren and I got back to the apartment very late; late enough that it could probably be considered early. I’d had to let her take over on the other two interrogations. With the final man I tried for over three hours before giving up and sending her in. It took her less than fifteen minutes to get him to talk. It stung, but I couldn’t help but admire her skill.

“Oh, that was fun,” she said as she hung up her coat.

“How do you do it?” I asked, jealousy seeping into my tone.

“I’m a Domme, Sherlock. It’s not just a job for me. There’s one hell of a lot more to D/s relationships than ropes and riding crops.” She placed a hand on the back of my neck and pressed against me. “I could show you, if you like.”

“I think not.” I said sternly, trying to sound as though I weren’t half panicked. I tried to pull away without actually touching her to no avail.

Irene threw her head back and laughed sharply, then pressed a brief kiss on my cheek. “That’s a shame, it would have been fun.” She finally let me go and started down the hall. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

I raised a hand to my hand to my cheek, my mind at a full stop. Didn’t most men feel something other than disgust and fear when a beautiful woman offered to take him to bed?

 _I’ve been hit on before, by men and by women, but it’s never_ scared _me before. I’ve found it distasteful and uninteresting, but never something to fear._

I walked to my room, closed the door behind me, stripped, and flopped down on the bed. _I wish John were here. I need someone to talk to. Except… No, I couldn’t talk to John about sex. That would be too awkward, especially since I still haven’t been able to file that conversation from Angelo’s._

I shook my head and rolled onto my back. _It doesn’t matter, anyway. There’s no way that I’ll be able to talk to him about anything for the next couple of months, at least._ I felt a stabbing pain in my chest and tears welling at the edge of my eyes. _How can I go months without talking to my John? Without hearing him laugh? Without hearing him tell me I’m amazing?_ I choked back a sob as the tears began to fall. _How can I go months without my idiot, genius, wonderful, hilarious, inspirational, soldier and doctor? How can I go without my friend?_

I cried myself to sleep that night and woke the next morning with no answers. When I walked into the sitting room Irene was sitting on the couch. She looked as though she had gotten little or no sleep.

“Come here,” she said, patting the cushion beside her. “We need to talk about something.”

I looked at her for a long moment before walking over and sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch.

“I heard you last night. I know you tried to keep quiet, but the walls here are thin. I’m sorry about yesterday. I beat you at your own game and then pressed myself on you when you were already upset, though you were doing your best not to show it. I knew that you didn’t want me, but I did it anyway because I was horny. I had no idea it would hit you so hard, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t my fault that you were upset by it. I never meant to make you cry. I’m sorry. I won’t make a pass at you again.

While she spoke, I slowly turned in my seat to face her. I realized that she was the closest thing I had to a friend. She was, possibly, the only person I could trust.

“Irene, that isn’t what I was… I mean, yes, I was bothered about it. To be honest, I’ve been expecting you to make a serious pass at me since you moved in, though. Apology more than accepted.”

“Good, good.” Relief flashed across her face but was quickly replaced with concern. “What were you crying about, then?”

“It really hit me last night. I miss John terribly. He’s the only person who I’ve ever cared about more than myself. Knowing how long it’s going to be until I can be with him again…” I felt hot tears start to prick at my eyes again.

“Can I ask you something extremely personal?”

“I can’t promise I’ll answer, but ask away.”

“Are you in love with him?”

The question hit me like a kick to the chest. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m asexual and a sociopath, there’s supposedly no way I can fall in love with _anyone._ I just… It feels like, without him by my side, I have a hole at the very heart of me which only grows larger as I spend more time away from him.”

I hated the irrational metaphor, but it was the only way to say how I felt that was even half true.


End file.
